


All Your Christmases

by uwhatson



Series: Four Season Challenge [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwhatson/pseuds/uwhatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“The first snow is like the first love. Do you remember your first snow?”</i>
</p><p>Derek comes to visit on Christmas Eve. As usual, nothing quite goes to anyone's plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Christmases

**Author's Note:**

> For Willa. Merry Christmas! (And happy holidays to anyone reading!)
> 
> Quote from Lara Biyuts. Many thanks to Andrea for the prompt.

“Stiles.”

“Hgn?”

“Stiles!”

“Wff— _what?_ ”

Stiles opens his eyes, squinting and blinking against the white light of morning. Something’s off—he can tell even before he’s able to keep his eyes open long enough to see Derek frowning towards the window, sitting like he’s ready to run even though his hand is still twisted in Stiles’ t-shirt.

“Derek, what—what _is_ it?”

Derek looks strange—washed out desaturation and sharp high-def somehow wrapped into one. What’s more concerning, though, is Stiles’ growing realization that Derek is wearing the same shirt as yesterday night, and also, his hair is sticking up awkwardly in the back, and oh god _did Derek Hale sleep here last night?_

But Derek interrupts Stiles’ burgeoning panic attack to say, with what might be considered forced calm, “The window.”

So Stiles finally looks over to see that—oh.

The window.

The weird white light filling Stiles’ bedroom suddenly makes a lot more sense when he sees the thick snowflakes cheerfully drifting past the top half of the glass. The bottom half, however, looks out on a thick wall of snowdrift, where the seemingly innocent snowflakes have piled up overnight to form a three-foot icy barrier across Derek Hale’s favorite escape route.

“Stiles?” Derek says eventually, still not letting go of Stiles t-shirt.

“Yeah?” Stiles manages to reply.

“Do you know why there’s three feet of snow outside your window?”

“Um—”

“Because,” Derek continues, “I feel like I remember someone last night saying Deaton had told them to practice their belief magic and so—” Derek tightens his grip on his t-shirt as Stiles tries to interrupt. “And _so_ , Stiles, this certain someone said they were going to try to get something very simple, very unimportant, very _small_ to happen. And yet somehow that small thing was apparently an overnight snowstorm. _In coastal California_.”

Derek finally turns to look at him, but the expression is more one of utter bafflement than one of anger. “What the _hell_ were you trying to have happen, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks, winces, and then realizes he can’t actually say it while looking Derek in the face, so he looks at the ceiling instead.

“Um… snow? On, um. On Christmas morning?”

Stiles drops his gaze from ceiling when he feels Derek’s fingers release their grip on his t-shirt, and is faced with the tableau of Derek sitting on the edge of his bed, hair still sleep-ruffled, head in his hands.

“Derek?” Stiles says. “I’m—I’m—”

 _I’m sorry_ is what Stiles means to say, but he’s cut short by the beginning of the unmistakable sound of Derek Hale laughing—the way Derek hardly ever laughs, not sarcastic, not annoyed, but just completely amused, to the point where he can’t manage to bury it underneath his leather-jacket-and-brooding-werewolf exterior any longer.

“Uh,” Stiles says eventually, “shouldn’t you be mad? I thought you’d be mad.” Derek’s sense of humor still tends to confuse him, especially since nine times out of ten he’s only laughing on the inside.

“Of course I’m not mad, you idiot,” Derek says, laughter still creeping in at the edges. “It’s—you’re learning, it happens—and it’s Christmas, so most people won’t have to go outside. But, um—” Derek swallows, and all the laughter disappears. “But your dad’s climbing the stairs as we speak, and he’s definitely going to kill me.”

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, fingers drumming against the snowman on the right knee of his holiday-themed pajama pants.

“‘Hey’?” Derek repeats, sliding the window shut behind him and dropping a backpack on the floor. “‘Hey,’ that’s all I get?”

“I’m doing important—magic—things,” Stiles says, refreshing AccuWeather’s website yet again in the hope that something—anything—might change.

“To the weather?” Derek says, leaning over his shoulder.

“No, not—I mean—you know, I don’t _have_ to share my magical secrets—”

“Yeah, okay,” Derek says, because Stiles does this pretty often when it comes to the touchy subject that is his belief magic. “Well, the temperature outside is like being in Canada, and also I parked my car ten blocks away so your dad won’t see it when he comes home, so in thanks for that heartfelt welcome—”

“HOLY FUCKING—” Stiles yelps as Derek slips a freezing cold hand down the back of his shirt.

“Better,” Derek says, and briskly kisses him on the temple before turning away. Before Derek can get very far, though, Stiles grabs hold of his jacket to tug him back around, the zipper freezing against his fingers.

“That was really mean of you,” Stiles says. The only light in his room is from the kind of dim lamp on the bedside table, which means that the Christmas lights from the house across the road are coloring the walls and dying Derek’s skin in pale shades of blue and gold.

In response, Derek says, “Mmm,” and leans over him, grinning—almost close enough but not quite.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, don’t—I’m _sorry_ , come on—”

And now Derek leans down and kisses him properly, cold lips and cold hands but warm mouth and warm skin when Stiles slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt.

Before Stiles can even begin thinking it might be good idea for them to move this to a more comfortable location, however, Derek pulls back and says with admirable seriousness for someone who just had their tongue in someone else’s mouth, “I have research for you.”

“Wow,” Stiles says, and lets his hands drop back into his lap. “Just—wow. Do you know how to keep a mood going or what.”

“Yeah, well, not every night can be like last night,” Derek says and picks up his bag from the floor to start rummaging through it. Eventually, he pulls out a thick stack of worse-for-wear printed papers and yet another water-stained and yellow-paged book to add to the growing collection in the back of Stiles’ closet.

“No pine bough bouquets with giant red bows?” says Stiles as Derek hands it over. “No peppermint-themed chocolates? This better not be my Christmas present, you know.”

“Who says I got you one?” Derek says. Stiles is already flipping through the library-printed pages—all in English, but only barely. Early American colonists apparently took a while to abandon some of the more unnecessary vowels.

Stiles sighs. “I mean, I might be happier if you didn’t, considering you’re the guy who put together a full arsenal of completely legal defensive weapons for my birthday. I swear, I will never view the common household hammer in the same way again.”

“I think you mean the common household hammer that’s saved your life at least twice already,” Derek replies. While he doesn’t really sound at all worried, Stiles would say that he _does_ sound like Derek Hale when he’s sounding sarcastic and annoyed in order to avoid sounding worried.

Stiles bites his lip, staring down at the page in front of him, before looking up to smile and say, “Yeah. The hammer my big strong werewolf boyfriend gave me to throw at people’s faces because he knows I can take care of myself.”

Derek doesn’t say anything—just looks at him for a moment, then leans down and kisses him.

Of course, the moment several minutes later when Stiles finally manages to say, “Let’s, um, let’s move this party to the bed, shall we?” is the precise moment Derek raises an eyebrow and says, “If by party you mean a party of werewolf research, then yes, that would be a great idea.”

Stiles groans, very tempted to throw something at Derek’s stupid werewolf abs as Derek extricates himself from their precarious position on Stiles’ overburdened computer chair. “Oh my god, world’s worst boyfriend! No—no more kissing for you! You know, Christmas Eve is supposed to be _romantic_ —not filled with hours of deciphering colonial gibberish that isn’t even guaranteed to have anything about werewolves in it!”

Derek just sits down on the bed, and grins, looking altogether far too pleased with himself for being such an asshole.

Sighing, Stiles starts fishing for the highlighter in his desk.

An hour later, Stiles is yawning for the third time in a minute, bright green highlighter threatening to fall out of his loosening grip.

“It’s barely ten, Stiles,” Derek says, although he’s one to talk considering that his head has been resting against Stiles’ shoulder for the past ten minutes, his shoes and leather jacket now residing on the floor.

“Yeah, well, practicing Deaton’s weird magic exercises kind of… takes it out of you.”

“What was the exercise?”

“I mean, it wasn’t—it was just one of those belief things, where you have to believe to make it happen or whatever. So I was supposed to try and make something happen—just, you know, something small. But it’s my first time trying it, so.” Stiles sighs. “I’m pretty sure it didn’t even work.”

“You gonna tell me what it was?”

“No, it’s—it’s nothing important anyway. And it’s kind of stupid, so.”

“Hm. I bet it wasn’t that stupid,” Derek says, and Stiles can feel his mouth move against his shoulder.

“You’d be surprised,” Stiles says, and smiles a bit before sighing. “But even if it _was_ stupid, and even if it _didn’t_ work, I’m still tired and I’m going to lie down, because at least then my body won’t have to work to keep me upright.”

“If you want to stay awake, that’s not—”

“Oh golly gee,” Stiles replies as he promptly drops down across the mattress and onto his incredibly soft pillow. “I can’t seem to understand this modern tongue anymore after swimming through pages of colonial gibberish! What’s that Derek? I can’t understand you! You’re not using enough vowels!”

“Stiles—”

“But gosh, this bed sure is comfortable. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s made for people to lie down on, just like I am doing, while you sit there leaning against the very uncomfortable wall.”

“Stiles, I told you, I don’t want to get shot. We are waiting—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, this isn’t a play,” Stiles interrupts, waving his hand in dismissal. “I would hope I’m mature enough to respect your inexplicable fear of the California state law.”

“Not the whole of California, Stiles,” Derek says. “Just your dad—a man who I’m pretty sure already wishes he could shoot me just for that one time he saw me kiss you on the cheek outside Safeway.”

“What? No! My dad loves you!” Stiles protests, although, yes, his dad had looked rather homicidal over dinner that night.

“Stiles,” Derek sighs, “your dad thinks I’m an unconvicted felon dragging his son down into the criminal underworld.”

“Well… at least you’re not boring,” Stiles says, and Derek smacks him in the thigh. But after a couple seconds, Derek pushes himself off the wall at last, and, after navigating across Stiles’ legs, collapses next to him, face already pressed against his shoulder again.

For the next quarter of an hour, Stiles tries to keep reading, holding the bundle of papers in front of his face, highlighter still in his hand, but it’s getting harder and harder to reach the end of each sentence.

“I told you,” mumbles Derek into his shoulder when Stiles lets the papers drop from his fingers.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, fumbling the cap onto his highlighter with sleep-clumsy fingers.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Stiles.”

“Mm,” Stiles says, but he’s already half asleep, eyes shut and Derek breathing softly beside him.

 

Stiles doesn’t even have time to panic before a knocking sounds at his bedroom door and his dad’s muffled voice says, “Stiles?” because of course Stiles’ dad is up bright and early on Christmas morning despite having worked a swing shift the night before.

Stiles immediately scrambles out of bed, pulling Derek up along with him and shoving him frantically toward the closet.

“Stiles?” his dad says again, and starts knocking louder.

“Just—just a second, Dad!” Stiles says, and runs back to grab the leather jacket and shoes from the floor that Derek is frantically gesturing towards, chucking them into the closet alongside his wide-eyed werewolf boyfriend and sliding the door shut.

“Hi, Dad!” says Stiles as innocently as possible upon flinging his bedroom door open. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” his dad says, and promptly engulfs him in the traditional squeeze-you-until-you-can’t-breathe Stilinski Christmas hug. “Sleeping late this year?”

“Yeah, um—” Stiles tries to say with all the air being squeezed out of his lungs. “I mean, I woke up a little while ago, but I was looking at the snow—”

“Isn’t that something?” his dad says, and finally lets go of his suffocating teenage son. “It was already coming down when I drove home at three. I’ve been watching the news, and no one has a clue what caused it. Snow on Christmas! How crazy is that?”

“Pretty, uh, pretty crazy. Yup, indeed. Yessiree.”

His dad frowns. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah!” Stiles says, and tries not to wince when it comes out sounding slightly manic. “Just—just woke up and all, so.”

“Well, throw on a sweater and we’ll have some breakfast, what d’you say?”

“Sounds great, Dad,” Stiles says, and pops back around the corner to open his closet, where he finds Derek sitting on the floor, holding out one of Stiles’ hoodies and glaring at him.

 _Sorry_ , Stiles mouths as he takes the offered hoodie, very aware of his father still waiting in the doorway.

 _You owe me_ , Derek mouths back and flashes him the scary red eyes. Unfortunately, the effect is kind of ruined by the remaining bedhead, as well as the simple fact that he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of Stiles’ closet.

Stiles gives him an apologetic smile, blows him a kiss, and leaves to follow his dad downstairs.

The rest of the morning is a bit of a whirlwind, although at least Stiles manages to sneak Derek some pumpkin bread while his dad is busy searching for the cocoa mix that managed to fall to the very back of the cupboard. The presents take a while, even with their small tree, since Stiles’ dad insists on writing down each one and who sent it so that Stiles can write them a thank you later. By the time they reach the last few green-and-gold packages, though, his dad is already starting to nod off, and Stiles, covering his dad with a blanket and scrawling out a quick note to leave on the kitchen counter, has never been so grateful for swing shifts.

“Jesus Christ, it’s cold,” says Stiles as he and Derek step onto the front porch, and Derek huffs a laugh behind him.

“What were you expecting, Stiles?” Derek says. “And you know you’d better reverse this soon.”

“Oh, come on, it’s already slowing down,” Stiles says. “Or at least, you know, a little bit. But I bet it’ll be sunny again in just a couple hours!”

“Hmm,” is all that Derek says in reply, which obviously means he thinks Stiles is completely right.

The drifts are knee deep, and it’s not long before Stiles’ feet are numb in his probably-now-ruined sneakers. Snow is landing everywhere—on his hair, on his clothes, on his eyelashes—and it’s not as pleasant as it might sound. Still, it makes a nice picture to look at, which he can attest to with Derek in front of him—Derek who is trying to look annoyed at nature’s wonders and not doing a very good job of it.

Eventually, Stiles says, “Sorry I accidentally dumped a snowstorm on us.” He’s staring down at his feet, due to the incredible importance of watching where he’s putting them. “And sorry you got stuck in my bedroom all morning.”

It’s a minute before Derek says anything—and he doesn’t actually say anything at first. Instead, he reaches out and takes hold of Stiles’ hand—both of them wearing gloves fished out of the back of Stiles’ dresser. It’s kind of awkward, since they’re both still trying to work their way through three-foot snowdrifts, but then, both of them are always doing something at least a little awkward, so really, it’s pretty nice on the whole.

“I like it,” Derek says at last, just when Stiles is beginning to think that he won’t say anything at all. “The snow, I mean. It’s nice. But very, well. Very enthusiastic. Um. But it wouldn’t be as—as incredible if it wasn’t.”

To his surprise, Stiles is finding it very difficult to breathe. After a few seconds, he manages to say, ever so eloquently, “Yeah?”

Derek looks over and grins. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Stiles says, and it’s almost hard to talk because he’s smiling so much, “the snow thinks you’re pretty incredible too. And the snow thinks you should come back to his house for Christmas dinner because eating frozen lasagna in a giant house all alone on Christmas is just sad, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” Derek says, and they’ve stopped walking now, standing up to their knees in snow on Christmas morning, holding on to each other with gloved hands.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and Derek kisses him.


End file.
